Famous Blue Raincoat

I have an uncle who is in very poor health, with multiple conditions:  pancreas removed several years ago, diabetes, COPD, amongst others. He takes more than 20 medications a day, and he's really been touch-and-go for the last year or so. He was previously rejected for a lung transplant due to his poor overall health, but he finally made small improvements over the summer, enough that a transplant center was willing to see him in October for a consultation on a possible lungs transplant.

He had several conditions which needed to be met in order for them to consider him a candidate: he needed to gain weight, he couldn't have any more blood clots and he could have no more hospitalizations for any condition before his appointment in October.

Unfortunately, he had another hospitalization in September, and between his medications and diabetes, he is unable to gain any weight. He went for the consultation anyway, but as you might imagine, he was rejected yet again. He's basically been sent home to live as long as he can in general failing health, or in other words, sent home to die.

I wonder what that feels like.   

We will all face this at some point, in either our loved ones or ourselves. After watching my mother-in-law and another uncle die slowly from cancer, I'm convinced that those of us who go quickly--in a heart attack, stroke or car accident where we don't know what hit us--are the lucky ones. I'm not even convinced that the short sharp shock of a sudden death is any more traumatic to our loved ones than watching us die slowly over weeks/months/years from a terminal illness. There is a different trauma that comes with watching someone you love suffer so long and knowing you can't do anything to change it.  

Those of you who know me also know that I am ever the eternal optimist--Pollyanna, even. I get sad or mad for a bit, but the setback or disappointment or traumatic event passes and I move on and look forward to the next good thing that is sure to come.

Those good things will end at some point.  

Whether we go quickly or linger for weeks/months/years with a terminal illness, there will come a day where we've seen our last sunrise or sunset. Drank our last coffee.  Eaten our last meal. Had our last kiss or hug or words with someone we care about. 

Is it better to know death is coming, and sooner rather than later? What about folks who know the date and even the time of their upcoming death, such as inmates on death row? Would I have the courage to decide the date and time myself if I were terminally ill and it became clear there was nothing else to be done except be kept comfortable and wait for nature to take its course? 

Food for thought after receiving the news about Uncle Mike, on a rainy Friday, while listening to Leonard Cohen.